


July 1977

by hes5thlazarus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Marauders' Era, Stream of Consciousness, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-14 02:23:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9153316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hes5thlazarus/pseuds/hes5thlazarus
Summary: Snape stews in teenage melodrama, eating lunch at a cheap fish-and-chips shop in Upper Cokeworth, beset by memories of a wasted ex-girlfriend, who couldn't be Lily Evans--what Bertha Jorkins saw behind the greenhouses, and what came after.Revised from an earlier account, cross-posted from fanfiction.net.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Retyped from my first account, which I am locked out of, hesfifthlazarus. Yes I wrote this. Yes I had to retype it by hand; I forgot the password to the Google Docs account I had type it in, years ago. Hope you enjoy. It is different that the first draft, on my old account. I promise it’s a better job.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter. I do, actually, own this story. hes5thlazarus and hesfifthlazarus are one and the same person. The style is inspired by the brilliant Possum132. Check out their story, “Snape Never Eats Here, Thank God”!
> 
> Content Warning: Cutting, suicidal ideation, sexual situations, PTSD flashbacks, stream-of-consciousness.

July 1977

Abraxas Malfoy paid well for the more difficult potions on this side of the law, and for now Severus Snape was perfectly happy to be his son’s apothecarist--Lucius paid for the ingredients, and his cigarettes, and for that Abraxas was rewarded with untraceable, top-quality barely legal potions from Britain’s youngest Potions Master.

He was seventeen and could apparate from Lancaster to London, no problem, slipping into an alleyway off Spinner’s End and popping back around a corner in Knockturn Alley so he could pick up the order from Borgin and Burke’s, in his old patched robes that maybe, just maybe his new salary could let him replace--but then again Black would sneer something about “nouveau riche not even just a snivelly greasy wannabe you should something about the hair first off why don’t we help him the lake’s just outside” and Potter would whip out his wand and before he would even have a chance to swallow his heart down his throat, he’d be hoisted up by his ankle and Lily--oh he’d just wait and see if Mr. Malfoy wanted to keep him on as an apothecary, and maybe wrangle a sponsorship to an apprenticeship that way.

Sixth year was done and finished, glory glory, and that left him, Severus Snape, smoking one of Malfoy’s pricey clove cigarettes from Lichtenstein, they made up too much of his salary, but it was glorious, smoke burning his lungs, a sneer on his lips as steam wafted past his mouth, positively draconic. Sitting at the window of a cheap and greasy--Sirius Black’s favorite taunt, quash the thought of him, fucking quash it--fish and chips shop, there he was, stubbing out his fancy fag on the worn wooden tabletop, he turned to gobbling his food down, tearing it hot, burning his worn fingers, but at least it was something. Nightingale used to kiss him like this, mouth hot and panting, tobacco-stained, so hard he’d--well, thoughts like this were never good in public, but he did miss her arse sometimes, nothing quite like having someone warm and hungry that actually wanted you, hungered for you--nothing like Lily.

The best thing Slughorn ever did was separate them in Potions last March, when Lily hexed him for attempting to slip Black Essence of Insanity, putting Lily with Longbottom, Black at the front of the classroom with Potter, and him and Nightingale way in the back. Lily and Longbottom, that bastard, hexing Regulus in the prefect’s shower, what a fucking coward, working busily away as Nightingale chilled, and he knew he was in luck with her. She did what he told her to do and didn’t giggle, was sardonic back at him, letting him touch her, hands pausing over crystal vials, lingering gazes over purple clouds, fixing a perfect Euphoria drought (adding a sprig of spearmint, to reduce singing--and that was a lark, back in fourth year, spiking the Gryffindor table’s pumpkin juice and enjoying the musical--Potter serenading Lily with “Love Hurts” and that horrified look on her face, on he laughed so hard he gave himself a stomach ache)--in the depths of a freezing February, and wasn’t he euphoric when they slowly cleaned their workstation and meandered into the ice and shadows of that gray day, walking her along the battlements in the Owlery, and as the last snow of the year fell mournfully on their heads, he let her kiss him. The snow he knew made him look like he had bad dandruff but she more than melted him, oh she was hot beneath his hands.

Fucking Bertha Jorkins--so he and Nightingale were snogging behind the greenhouses, well a bit more than that, her eyes glistened and her chapped lips temporarily wet as she made to lean down, pushing him by the waist against the wall--Bertha Jorkins, arsehole seventh year Hufflepuff who couldn’t keep her nose out of others’ business, of course he hexed her, not Sectumsempra but he was sorely tempted, especially after the wolf said don’t think about it don’t think about it the scent of dirt as his hands clenched against a grimy wooden table, greasy with salt and butter, clear your fucking mind, smell that vinegar--he just used the toe-nail hex, he’d been meaning to try it out, and oh did it work--her shoes spit on the way to the Hospital Wing, Regulus said. Oh, Florence had been sweet, well salty honestly, sweaty and her eyes glistening, and then she had produced a blunt and asked him if he’d ever smoked grass. He had, it wasn’t pleasant, high as the kites with Wilkes and Barty Crouch not so twitchy for once, it made him feel dead, emotionless, and dull, but for Florrie he took a draft, not too deep, it stunk sticky-sweet in his throat. She was so much more revealing after that, even more chill.

In Ravenclaw the House politics were almost as vicious as Slytherin, she said, and even now Severus snorted at the memory, picking at the last bits of chips. Nightingale made him hungry after that, rather than wary and waiting like Lily, who had never gotten her shit stolen like him and Florrie, Florie had spent all of fourth year without shoes. Her dad was a total arse too, Severus could understand that, drank a lot, but her mother was worse--that’s how she died, in fifth year, tried to Apparate drunk and ended up Splinching herself all over the garden.

Pure sex, that’s what Nightingale looked like, her eyes unfocused, front teeth glimmering as they sunk into her bottom lip as she paused to breathe. She took the blunt to her lips and closed her eyes, the smoke itself an experience, and he felt the wind stretch pass him and ruffle her short dark hair, the edges of her eyelids, into her mouth mingling with the herbal stench into her lungs. He took the blunt from her finger and kissed her when she turned to him, grinning: hunger, and for that he could almost love her.

The girls didn’t like her hair, those stupid slags. When it got warmer they climbed the old beech by the Lake, high enough to hide. She wore muggle clothes under her robes, half-blood like him, mum a Muggleborn--hence the stupidity to Apparate while drinking, no wonder she fucking Splinched. Splayed in his throbbing lab, she spread her arms out, stretching her fingers to the edge of the sparkling green. He nearly overbalanced, so she wrapped her legs around him that was nearly too much, and when he hissed as she shifted, she started and stared and grinned, then began to grind. He tumbled out of the tree, her laughing delightfuly, splayed with him on the ground. Merlin be praised, everybody was at Hogsmeade.

She cut her hair first, Nightingale said, the rest came later. Later than day they walked the battlements again, still cold in the spring weather, and leaning against the stone wall he saw her, white skin dark hair dark glimmering eyes dry lips and dark, dark robes that always betrayd some noxious odor, hiding the muggle underneath. Did the smell sting him he wondered and beyond memory Severus Snape frowned, eating a cooling chip to steady himself, and he had grabbed her wrists and pushed te sleeves up. Honestly, it would’ve been better if she bore a Dark Mark; he would’ve known how to react to that. Criss-crossing scars and scabs pink and red against white, who knew how to deal with that?

Awkward: Lily would’ve known what to do, sane and sensible and floral-smelling, Lily ruling the (non-Slytherin) girls of their year, and when Florence pushed him against the wall and then down to the floor, shuffling under his robes, he didn’t protest, just started pulling at her skirt, her pants.

It fucking lasted two minutes and they hadn’t spoken since, not even an owl. Their intimacy had been violated by their bodies, the scars on her arms, his lackluster performance grunting in the cold stone halls, the awkward flush to her skin when he clumsily asked if there were anything she wanted, as well.

Merlin he should’ve said something anything when he helped her up, he should’ve kissed her again when she bit her lip and looked away, eyes glistening so brightly, it was always the eyes that got him, he should’ve touched her face and smiled, anything, because he didn’t love her, not at all, though she hungered for him, that desperate intimacy and in that filthy fish and chips shop Severus missed Lily so hard it physically hurt, and as he scowled he glanced out the window and caught a flicker of red in the gay that could’ve, almost, been enough.


End file.
